I stared at him hard.
“I said, Own money? the sixpence? Where did you get it?”
“I have sixpence a week allowed me to spend.”
“Hah! to be sure,” he said, still holding on by my tie, and staring at me as he fumbled with one hand in his trousers pocket. “Get out, Dick, or I’ll tread on you!” this to one of the cats, who seemed to think because he was black and covered with black fur that he was a blacking-brush, and he was using himself accordingly all over his master’s boots.
“If you please, I want to go now,” I said hurriedly.
“To be sure you do,” he said, still holding on to the end of my tie—“to be sure you do. Hah! that’s got him at last.”
I stared in return, for there had been a great deal of screwing about going on in that pocket, as if he could not get out his big fist, but it came out at last with a snatch.
“Here, where are you?” he said. “Weskit? why, what a bit of a slit it is to call a pocket. Hold the sixpence though, won’t it?”
“If you please I’d rather pay for the flowers,” I cried, flushing as he held on by the tie with one hand, and thrust the sixpence back in my pocket with the other.
“Dessay you would,” he replied; “but I told you before I’m market grower and dursen’t take small sums. Not according to Cocker. Didn’t know Cocker, I suppose, did you?”